


Pages In Your Passport

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete pursued soccer instead of music. He has a good long run in the game. Then in 2010, he meets this guy in a band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pages In Your Passport

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bandom Big Bang wave 2 2011. Please see the masterpost for links to the wonderful fanart and mix that were created for it: http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/1813267.html

This is Pete's favorite kind of event: an art show of the vaguely-defined, loosely-themed variety, tickets overpriced for charity and art due to be auctioned tonight (and then again on eBay by the end of the week). He only gets invited so they can add _athletes_ to the _musicians_ and _actors_ listed as contributors on the promotional materials. Pete Wentz, soccer star. You don't know who that is, but it doesn't matter. Come, eat, drink, mingle.

Pete especially loves these events because the expectations for his behavior are low. He's an athlete among artists, “artists,” and socialites. As long as he doesn't actually bite anyone, they'll be impressed.

He can't even remember what charity tonight is for. Kids or pets, probably. Kids without access to art, pets without access to food, maybe the other way around.

He's supposed to stay by his piece, talk it up and smile big or whatever, but he got bored. He wandered and mingled and ate hors d'oeuvre. He hit up the champagne table. All of that killed a very enjoyable two hours, until one of the event organizers caught him and sent him back to stand by his painting.

It's boring by the paintings. Nobody cares about them, and there is no champagne. Still, he's committed to not throwing a tantrum tonight. He promised Andres.

There are two people standing by the painting when he gets back to it: a small woman with a bleach job that's gone all brassy, and a skinny guy in big sunglasses with bleached-blond hair that's better in tone but showing a good three inches of roots.

Deliberate dramatic effect, maybe. He is very dramatic. Tight jeans and sweet boots. Pete can't see the label on the jeans or the fashionably-ugly sweater, but he's pretty sure he would approve.

"What do you think?" the woman asks, looking from the painting to the man.

He shrugs. "Passionate, but no technique."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "What do you know about technique?"

"Enough to repeat what Gerard said when we looked at this earlier."

"Oh, well, then why did you let me make you look at it again?"

Pete had hesitated in his approach to listen to all of that, and he holds off another moment for the man's reply.

"I like the passion. Technique can be secondary."

That's as good a cue as Pete's heard in ages. "Why thank you," he says, stepping forward and flashing his biggest smile. "That's exactly what I always say."

The guy turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. "You're the artist?"

"Pete Wentz." Pete gives them his best smile and shakes hands. "Enjoying the evening?"

"It's a great show." The woman glances over her shoulder. "I'm Lindsey Way, this is Mikey. We're here with--"

"The My Chemical Romance guy." Pete follows her gaze across the room to where Gerard is holding court, candy-apple-red hair bright as a spotlight. "I love his piece."

Lindsey smirks. "So do I."

"Linds," Mikey murmurs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Dude."

"The art," Pete elaborates, circling around them to stand next to his own painting. "The lines are fantastic." His eyes flick to Mikey's face. "The technique."

The corner of Mikey's mouth curves up slightly. "But there's also passion."

Laughing softly, Pete leans back against the wall, not looking away from Mikey's eyes. "There is that. So what do you do?"

Lindsey looks back and forth between them. "I'm...just going to go check on Gerard and let you two chat."

Mikey shakes his head as she goes, still smiling to himself. Pete drums his fingers on the wall. "She your wife?"

"No. Gerard's wife. My sister-in-law."

"Matching hair."

"It was a family project."

"Seriously?" Mikey shrugs, his smile getting just a bit wider, and Pete feels his own grin do the same. "You didn't answer my other question."

"I'm in the band, too. I play bass."

"Oh, wow. That's awesome. A real live rock star."

"You're in a room full of them." Mikey looks at the painting again, stepping forward to brush his fingers over the edge of the frame. "So tell me about this."

"Aren't you going to ask what I do?"

"It's right there on the card. You're with..." He squints at the card. “Chivas USA. Wow.”

"And do you know what that means?"

Mikey shrugs carelessly, his fingers still lingering on the frame. "Sports of some sort."

"Soccer."

"Oh."

"It's sort of the less-loved little brother team of the Galaxy."

"That's nice."

Pete laughs and turns to face the painting as well. "What do you want to know about it?" He can see it the way Mikey and, apparently, Gerard did; wild and sloppy. It's a background of blues and reds that blur into muddy purple and brown at the edges. Centered in the foreground is a blocky green skull, eye sockets burning orange and streaks of yellow running down the cheekbones like tears. Jagged lightning and smeared storm clouds cluster around the skull, blending into a puddle of shadow at the base that holds his signature and the date. "It's pretty straightforward, I guess."

Mikey nods at the card pinned to the wall. "What does the title mean? Shoot the Sunshine."

"Nothing, really. I just thought it sounded cool. Can I get you some champagne?"

Mikey looks over toward Gerard for a minute, then meets Pete's eyes again. "Or we could get out of here."

Pete likes the way this guy thinks. And looks. And dresses. And smiles.

It's going to be a fun night.

**

They go to a bar that Pete knows first, because he's classy in his pick-ups and firmly believes in everyone having the right to be drunk first. Mikey seems to find that funny. Or cute, maybe. He smiles, at any rate, and looks at Pete with hot, sharp eyes, then turns to the bartender and orders something complicated that Pete's never heard of.

"I got these in Japan," Mikey says, pushing a glass in front of Pete. "Drink up."

Mikey finishes his when Pete's still on his third cautious sip. "It's good," Pete says, lifting the glass in helpful mime in case Mikey can't hear him over the bar noise.

Mikey doesn't bother with acting stuff out; he leans across the table like he owns the space and speaks right in Pete's ear. "Of course it's good. I wouldn't go with something shitty when I'm buying drinks for somebody; what kind of guy do you think I am?"

"I have no idea," Pete says, which is true. It's better than his first impulse, which was _the kind I'm going to marry._

Mikey buys a few more rounds, and before Pete quite knows what's happened his head is swimming and he's pawing at Mikey's chest, sticking his fingers through the buttonholes of his sweater. "You're trying to get me drunk," he says, pulling at the sweater until Mikey laughs and moves closer to him. "Aren't you? Full confession."

"I expected a professional athlete to be a lot more hardcore than this."

"Ha!" Pete lets go and sits back, waving at the waitress for another round. "I've gotta clean up my act for pre-season training, dude. I get clean as...as...I get clean as fuck. I go vegan. I go edge. Like I'm sixteen again, I swear. My body's a temple."

"Why?"

Pete snorts and points at him, grabbing his empty glass with his free hand and tapping it against the edge of the table. "So I get cleared to play. Won't clear me for the season if I'm all fucked up before it even starts."

"Why would drinking a little make you too fucked up to play?"

"Because I am old as shit, man." Pete taps the glass harder, waiting for the sharp clean sound of a crack. "I am old as the motherfucking _dirt_. Can't walk it all off like I could when I was a kid."

"You don't look old to me."

"Old for a player," Pete says, and the glass finally breaks under his hand. He drops it to the floor and shakes out his fingers. "Old for a pro, anyway. Different than real-world old."

Mikey blinks slowly and finishes his own drink. "That means you can still fuck, right?"

"Yeah. That's all in working order."

"Then let's get out of here."

"That's the best idea I've heard all night."

"This is the second time you've heard it."

That's irrelevant, as far as Pete's concerned, and he tells him so, which makes Mikey smile all the way out to the cab.

**

The ride to Pete's house is long enough that he has time to sober up a little. Not all the way, but enough that he starts being aware of how much he's leaning on Mikey, touching him, tracing the outside seam of his jeans and the long line of skin from his elbow to his wrist. Mikey doesn't seem to mind; he keeps glancing sideways at Pete and smiling, anyway. Pete's still drunk enough that he doesn't mind the lack of dignity. He just floats between the chemicals and smiles back.

His house is pretty small for the zip code and what he paid for it; he doesn't need that much space, and most of that money went toward the six-foot fence around the backyard, the top of the line security system, and the panic room. His home is his fortress. He's secure here.

He doesn't tell Mikey any of that, of course, and Mikey doesn't ask. He stands back just out of arm's reach while Pete pays the cab driver, then follows him up to the house, barely glancing at the landscaping-gone-wild that Pete stopped paying for a while back, or the massive camera mounted over the keypad where Pete punches in his codes to open the door.

"Cozy," Mikey says once they're inside. "And very white."

"I never bothered to paint it when I moved in."

"Why would you?"

"Exactly." Pete looks around the entryway, at the kicked-off shoes and cast-aside practice bag and more jackets and reusable grocery bags than he could possibly reasonably need. "So..."

"So."

"You want a drink?"

Mikey laughs and reaches out, running his finger along the neckline of Pete's shirt before hooking it in the fabric and pulling him closer. "I want a _bed_. I'm starting to think you're just messing around with me."

"I'm not." Pete leans in and kisses him, tasting the echo of the drinks on his lips. Mikey doesn't waste time. He opens his mouth and lets Pete in, his hands coming up to cradle Pete's jaw and trace over the rough evening stubble with his thumbs.

Pete sucks at Mikey's tongue, closing his eyes and getting lost in the raw feeling, the touch of skin to skin, the little noises Mikey makes under his breath and the heat of his body pressed up against Pete's own. It's good, it's _really_ fucking good, and like flipping a switch, it's all Pete wants. He's in for this.

Mikey grins against his mouth. "This is a better kind of messing around."

"Definitely." Pete kisses him again, his teeth bumping roughly against Mikey's in the sudden rush of his enthusiasm. "Fuck, definitely. C'mon, bedroom's down the hall."

The bedroom's also white, blank and sterile, but Pete's bed is a splash of bright color, jumbled blue and red and gold. He has a housekeeping service that comes in and keeps things livable, and at some point he checked a box somewhere for the "bright and obnoxious" color scheme. It keeps him from getting afraid that he lives in a holding cell where aliens are waiting to come experiment on him.

And it makes it impossible to miss the bed, easy to steer Mikey toward it and push him down onto the sheets. Mikey looks good stretched out against the colors, mouth twisted in a little smile and eyes bright and hot on Pete. "Strip," he says, arching up off the bed and undoing his own jeans. "Mr. Hard-to-Get."

"I just met you three hours ago." Pete tugs his shirt off over his head, shivering at the sharpness of the air conditioning hitting bare skin. "And we're about to fuck. I don't think that counts as hard to get."

"I would've given you a hand job in the cab if I thought you were into it." Pete's looking down to undo his own fly, which leaves him jumping in surprise when Mikey's hands settle on his arms, rubbing up and down from elbow to wrist and tracing his ink. "Wow."

"Not that exciting." Pete pushes his trousers off his hips, steps out of the puddle of fabric, catches himself trying to strike some kind of a pose standing there by the bed in his boxer-briefs. "Just a chronicle of badly thought-out decisions."

"They're hot." Mikey sounds pretty decided about that. He touches part of Pete's left sleeve, a word woven into the pictures in the same black ink. "What does that say?"

Pete catches his hands and guides them away, down to the hem of Mikey's own t-shirt. "Let's talk about that later, okay? You're not done stripping yet."

Mikey laughs, low and hot and sounding kind of satisfied even though they haven't done anything yet. Maybe he's just satisfied that he really is going to get what he wants. "Sweet."

**

Pete wakes up to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He's lying on his stomach, sheets tangled around his legs, back and ass bare to the cool air of his bedroom. He turns his head and blinks up at Mikey, standing there in the half-light that comes from the security lights outside the windows. Still full dark outside, then. "Time's it?"

"Four-thirty." Mikey smiles apologetically and traces his hand down Pete's back. "I've gotta go. We're shooting a video today, it's a whole...thing."

"Oh." Pete rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and sits up, squinting at the bedside table in search of his phone. "I'll call you a cab?"

"I already did. It's cool. I just wanted to be sure the security system wasn't going to shoot me with lasers or release the hounds or something."

"Oh. No. You can always get out. I just don't want anything getting in."

One of Mikey's eyebrows rises in a slow arch. "Any _thing_?"

Pete shrugs and climbs out of the bed. Paranoia and night terrors aren't really a one-night-stand kind of conversation. "You never know."

Mikey seems to accept that; he doesn't say anything as Pete leads him back through the house to the front door. "This was fun," Pete says, flipping the porch lights on and looking out into the dark for the cab.

"Yes." Mikey looks outside, too, then glances at Pete out of the corner of his eye. "You do mean the sex, right?"

"Yes."

"Good." Headlights start making their way up the street, and Mikey makes a pleased little noise. "It was nice meeting you, too. And I liked your painting."

"Even though I've got no technique."

"You have technique in other ways."

Pete laughs and shakes his head, until abruptly he can't because Mikey's curved his hand around Pete's jaw and is kissing him. Pete closes his eyes and kisses back, vaguely aware of being still-sleepy and naked and standing on top of his own bag of gear, with a cleat digging into the arch of his foot.

"It was nice to meet you," Mikey murmurs against his mouth.

"You too," Pete says, dropping one hand to cover his dick as Mikey opens the front door. "Bye."

**

He watches a couple of episodes of _Criminal Minds_ off his DVR and makes his morning protein smoothie before his agent calls to ream him out for running away from the art show.

"You promised you would behave," Andres says. "Don't roll your eyes at me."

"I did behave."

"You _left in the middle of the event_."

"But I didn't cause a scene. Which was technically all I promised, dude."

"Next time I'm making you put things in writing, Pete."

"Fine, fine." He moves over to the window, looking at the pool. He needs to skim the leaves off the top. Canceling the lawn service also canceled the part where they did his pool stuff for him. "Hey, Andres, I gotta go."

"All right. I'm trying to book you some speaking engagements."

"Okay." He hangs up and stares out the window for another minute, then goes back into the living room to his laptop. He checks his usual sites--his fan forum, ESPN, CNN, Twitter--and for no good goddamn reason finds himself typing "My Chemical Romance tour" into the Google search bar.

Apparently they're headed to Europe in three weeks. He sips his smoothie and stares at the list of dates. London, Berlin, Rome, Barcelona. All of his old party grounds. Nowhere in the states, though. Nothing he can make it to see.

He's supposed to be prepping for the start of practice. He doesn't even know if he's ever heard anything by this band. He closes the laptop, then heads outside to clean the pool.

**

Two weeks go by without Pete really being sure how. He paints some more. He rents a push mower and attempts to mow his lawn. He replaces the shoes he was wearing in the attempt, and buys the rest of the designer's collection, because why not? He does a speaking gig at a youth soccer organization. He calls his sister five times and his brother twice. He starts a flamewar on a forum for DC United fans.

He's _bored_.

It doesn't seem fair for an insomnia swing to come when he's already bored; sleeping should be a stretch of time where he _isn't_ staring at the walls and fantasizing about opening his skull with a screwdriver just for something to _do_. But he isn't that lucky.

He logs a lot of miles on his treadmill. Reads a few books. Starts a flamewar on a Chicago Crush forum. Fuck those guys.

Finally, seventeen days after he watched Mikey walk out his front door, he calls Andres.

Then he hangs up, because it's six in the morning, and Andres made him sign an agreement that he wouldn't call between one and eight AM anymore.

But he calls back at eight o'clock sharp. "I need you to book travel for me."

"I'm your agent, not your assistant."

"I don't have an assistant."

"You should get one."

"This is why I pay you an ungodly percentage of my contracts, Andres."

"For my infinite patience?"

"And your good looks and charming personality."

"Uh-huh." Pete can hear him clicking away at his computer in the background. Pulling up a booking site; good, good. "Give me the details."

"I want to go to London."

"Okay."

"On Friday."

"...it's Tuesday, Pete."

"I know. Sorry. I just want to get out of town. I'm bored."

"I'm not sure I should let you travel while you're bored."

"Blow me. Just get me a plane ticket and a hotel, huh? I just want to spend a couple days in London. I like London."

"Okay."

"London likes me."

"Sure it does."

"Well, it used to, anyway."

"London likes you fine, Pete." He can hear Andres tapping away at his keyboard. "I'll get it set up and send you the details. Go run some laps."

"Yeah, yeah." He hangs up, tosses his phone away, and goes to make a smoothie. No running today. Maybe swimming instead.

He can already feel the anxiety in the back of his head easing. He's _doing_ something. Possibly something stupid, but _something_. He might even sleep tonight.

**

He arrives in London exhausted and head-spinning, dragging his suitcase onto the underground because the idea of being shut in a cab with a driver makes his throat close up. It doesn't make any sense that being shut in a giant metal tube with dozens of other people would be any better, but he's used to not making any sense by now. Besides, he hasn't been cursed out in a British accent for a couple of years now. It's a fun little throwback to his younger days.

Alonna is waiting for him at his hotel, with the slightly tight, patient smile that means she expected him half an hour ago. "Sorry," he says, waving his Tube pass at her. "I got off at the wrong station and had to walk back."

"Why were you...never mind." She hugs him briefly and hands him a keycard. "You're checked in. They won't put a treadmill in your room, but the gym is open twenty-four hours. Don't abuse the privilege."

"Thanks." He tucks the key in his pocket and looks around the lobby. "Have I been here before?"

"You were removed from the lobby by several police officers. It's been renovated since then." She glances at her watch and shakes her hair back. "I'm afraid I need to be going. If you need anything else, give me a ring. Lovely to see you." She kisses him on the cheek and he wrinkles his nose in response, glad he can get away with that with her instead of returning physical gestures that make him feel crawly and nervous. She knew him back in the day, when he was hot shit in London and she was a baby duckling publicist. They helped each other out, and now she's a swan and he's...well, he's still alive and kicking.

He goes up to his room and unpacks his suitcase, filling up the drawers neatly one by one. He has the room for a week. He isn't sure he'll actually stay that long, but it was a nice round number, and he can definitely keep busy in London for that long. Lots to do. People to see. Places to go.

His brain feels like it's _clicking_ from thought to thought, like a watch, like it takes physical effort to get there. A walk might calm it down, or might make it worse, but there's only one way to find out.

He changes his clothes for an outfit heavy on the black, asymmetrical and loosely-fitting. Disguise clothes. He'll be incognito here. Really, he's incognito anywhere, but it's more fun to do it in style.

**

London doesn't glow, but it hums. He likes the feeling of it under his feet and around him. He likes the surly politeness of the English. He likes the cloudy skies and gloomy air, at least at first, at least for the change of scenery.

He doesn't have a goal in mind, just walks, moving in a straight line away from his hotel so he can make his way back again without having to get help or a cab. He wanders into shops, jots down the names of a few restaurants in his phone, finally stops at a sterile little cafe for coffee and peoplewatching. Eavesdropping, really; he keeps his eyes down, wandering over the tabletop or the surface of his drink. He just wants to listen.

The consistency of mundane life, in every country, for everyone, is reassuring. He likes that men in suits here are very much like men in suits at home, or in Italy, or Croatia, or Venezuela. He likes that sharp-eyed women in their twenties are the same. He likes that teenagers _never_ change, no matter what, whether they're dressed in black or neon.

The ones sitting at the table next to his are wearing a mish-mash of both. "I'm going out to queue at nine, Jo," one of them says, shaking heavy bangs dyed Crayola-red out of her eyes. "You'd better do the same if you want barrier."

"Mum won't drop me off until the afternoon," her friend says with a shrug. She's got the heavy eyeliner, black hair dye, and fishnets that Pete still wants to call goth, but probably mean something else entirely these days. "You'll save me a spot, yeah?"

"I'll try. Sometimes you can't." They keep talking, but Pete tunes them out, swirling his coffee in its cup and thinking back to his own show-going days, fighting for barrier, throwing himself into the crowd on the floor. That's the way to live.

One of the girls shifts in her seat, dragging her bag up onto her lap in search of something. The motion draws his eyes, and he studies the heavy canvas decked in layers of patches. The most prominent declares _My Chemical Romance_ in spidery white letters, and he flashes back to the list of concert dates on their website, the ones he'd lazily glanced over weeks ago now.

"Huh," he mumbles into his coffee. The girls shoot him a dirty look, cutting their conversation off in the half-resentful, half-guilty way he remembers from when he was their age. He ducks his head lower and takes a sip.

Well, it's not like he has any solid plans anyway. It's something to look into.

**

"It's sold out." Alonna is always brisk and efficient on the phone, her voice sharp enough to cut him over the waves of radiation or magic or whatever cell phones use. "Been sold out for ages."

"Scalp me something."

"That would cost more than a bit, Peter. Are you sure? I can ask around, but it's very short notice and I do have other things on my plate, you know."

He looks out the window of his hotel room, out at the city, still humming and whirling around like it's alive. He should go out there and plug into that, tap a vein. Dance and drink. Live it up.

He doesn't really remember the flash of Mikey's smile (the line of his hip, the rough intake of his breath) anyway. It was a one-time thing. Already practically forgotten.

"Nah," he says. He blinks and presses his fingers between his eyes, digging at the pressure that builds up there when he's thinking too much instead of doing. "Nah, forget it. It was just an idea."

"I'll take you to lunch tomorrow."

"Awesome. You know where to find me."

He ends up spending the evening watching TV from his bed. True, he could've done that from anywhere in the world. But this hotel delivers hot drinks and these warm buttery cookies--biscuits, whatever--all night long, so that's fucking awesome. He can party tomorrow night, after the teenagers have finished their concert and gone home. Best part of adulthood.

**

Alonna gets him on the VIP list at a place that didn't exist the last time he was in London. It's exactly the same as all of the clubs he's ever been to on three continents over a stupid number of years. He appreciates that, actually. The consistency is comforting.

He has a few drinks and watches the floor for a while, then starts up the delicate staircase to the elite lounge or whatever it's called here. It's a loft that runs half the length of the building so you can look down on the floor like sky gods. That's pretty awesome.

A bouncer stops him halfway up the stairs. "Sorry, sir. Private party tonight."

"I'm on the VIP list."

" _Private_ party. Sir."

Pete nods and rocks back on his heels, not quite turning around but doing his best to have all the body language of a guy who's not a threat. "Anybody I've heard of?"

"Might be, sir. Some American band."

Pete looks up, over the guy's shoulder and into the lounge. All he sees is a blur of bodies, nothing identifiable or distinct, and anyway that would be too much of a coincidence, just a flat-out creepy twist of fate, if--

"So I'm afraid I need to ask you to go back downstairs," the bouncer prompts. Pete steps back once, then again, eyes still fixed up in the lounge. He catches a flash of bright cartoon-red hair and his heart seizes in his chest, because _yes_ , it is, and what are the fucking odds?

" _Sir_ ," the bouncer says sharply. Pete stumbles back again, nearly falling down the next riser. Right, whatever the odds are, he's not getting in. Even if he tells the bouncer who he is, at this point the guy is suspicious and on-guard. He needs a plan.

It's a well-known fact that plans come from bars, so he heads there to regroup.

Two drinks later he has some luck. One of the club staff eases by him to get to the bar, holding her tray against her chest while she yells drink orders over the music. She flips her hair out of her eyes and takes a breath when the bartender turns away, and Pete touches her arm lightly.

"Hey," he says, leaning in closer. "You're working the party upstairs?"

She gives him the weary, fuck-off look that's universal to women who work in clubs packed full of idiots. He's familiar. "Yes."

"Is there a blond guy? Longish hair on top? Taller than me, great smile?"

"Sunglasses and an ugly jumper?"

That sounds entirely possible. "Yeah. Can you tell him Pete Wentz says hi? From LA?"

She blinks and turns to face him fully, some of her professional disdain evaporating. "Pete Wentz? You played for Chelsea."

"Years ago. Only two seasons."

"Fuck me. You were ace." She looks him over and he lets himself smile, turning his arm so she can see the tattoos she's looking for. He has a lot more now than when he was a kid at Chelsea, but he remembers which ink was for that team. He's the one who knows all of it by heart, after all.

"Where did they trade you off to again?" she asks. "That was fucking stupid."

"Croatia. And I kind of did it to myself." He can smile now, thinking about it. God, he was stupid in those days. "Never play politics. That's my advice for everyone. I tried to get them to print it on a shoe, but it wouldn't fit."

"Duly noted." The bartender pushes her drinks across the bar and she shifts her tray to start loading up. "You want to write a message on a napkin or something for Blondie up there?"

"No. Just tell him I said hi." Anything he might write would be nonsensical right now, not to mention illegible. Better to just let the chips fall where they may.

**

It's a good fifteen minutes before she comes back, and he's pretty much accepted that the chips are falling somewhere else entirely. That's okay. He has alcohol and music with an obnoxious, thumping beat. What else does a man need in life?

She has her tray under her arm this time, leaving her other hand free to catch his shoulder and pull him in close enough to hear her. "Not sure he believed me at first! Had to tell him I know my footballers, and you're brilliant, even with that whole funny thing with the coach's daughter or whatever it was."

Apparently in fifteen minutes she had remembered things other than his tattoos. He probably deserves that. "What did he say?"

"Looked a bit startled and then laughed and said I should bring you up."

"Upstairs?"

"Yeah. C'mon."

"The bouncer already sent me down once."

"This time you're with me. Come on."

**

It occurs to Pete belatedly, once they're already upstairs and weaving through the party in search of Mikey, that she was flirting with him and he probably should have given some kind of reaction instead of being oblivious. This is how his life goes sometimes. He's trying to be more zen about it.

And this party is distracting. There are a lot of people, many with more tattoos than he has, all loud and laughing and waving their hands. They're a dramatic bunch. He feels simultaneously like he could fit in here and that he doesn't.

Mikey's sitting at a booth in the far corner, tucked in between a bald guy with lots of ink and a scruffy one with a bushy mane of hair. Pete glances back and forth between them, at how they bookend Mikey and hold him close between them with their bodies. Must be his bodyguards or something.

"Holy shit, it's really you." Mikey grins and then laughs, a weird honking laugh that Pete likes a lot. It doesn't fit with the smooth glam exterior. It's like getting a glimpse through the glass. "Ray, let me out, dude. I can't believe this."

Hair guy--Ray--slides out of the booth and Mikey follows, coming around the table and throwing an arm around Pete's shoulders to pull him into an easy hug. Pete tenses despite himself--hugs from not-quite-strangers, _fuck_ , and also Mikey is bony and cold against Pete's booze-flushed body--but Mikey doesn't seem to mind. He drops back a step and smiles, mouth broad and cheerful and showing crooked teeth, eyes hidden behind big dark glasses. "So cool running into you again, man. What're you doing here?"

"Just came to London for a change of scenery."

"Oh yeah. Yeah. Who the fuck wants LA with all that...sun and shit when you can have..." Mikey gestures expansively, arms flying out and almost clipping passers-by. He has nice arms. Distracting hands. Long fingers with calluses. "Seriously, though, it's sweet. Were you at the show?"

"No. No, I didn't even know there was a show." Mostly true. Ninety percent true.

"Oh." He thinks there's a hint of disappointment there, though it's hard to be sure when he can't see Mikey's eyes."Too bad. It was a really good show. Like, we were...on. I guess. Wow, I sound like a jackass."

"No," Pete says again, but Mikey's already turned, reaching across the table for his drink. The bald guy raises his eyebrows and Mikey flips him off, drinking deep and licking the rim before he speaks. "Be cool, Pedicone. This is Pete. He plays soccer."

"Nice to meet you," Pedicone says. Pete nods in response and shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hit by a bizarre, heightened awareness that he doesn't belong here. This place isn't his.

"You want a drink?" Mikey asks, turning to face him again. He runs his hand through his hair and Pete's attention is caught all over again by the fingers, long bones and knobby knuckles, wrapped up in lank gold strands and tugging.

"I think he's had a few," Ray says, and he and Pedicone laugh.

Mikey ignores them, cocking his head and looking steadily at Pete. Or at least the flat black lenses stay aimed at Pete. It's kind of like talking to Darth Vader.

"I'm good, I think. Thanks."

Mikey nods and downs the rest of his own drink, licking the rim again and setting the empty glass aside. "You want to get out of here?"

Pete blinks. "I've heard that line from you before."

"Sixty percent of the time, it works _every_ time," Mikey says without a hint of a laugh. There's a dizzy split second where Pete isn't sure if it's the reference he thinks it is and they're having a dumb-movie moment, or if it's just that Mikey is in fact kind of a douchebag.

Then the corner of his mouth quirks up just a little, just enough for the joke to be between _them_ , and oh, fuck, Pete just might be in love.

**

The cab ride back to Pete's hotel is quiet. Mikey brushes the back of his hand against Pete's thigh a few times, but they don't touch beyond that. Pete can't think of anything to say. London races past them and the lights are almost too much, blurring into a solid block that stabs at Pete's eyes. He envies Mikey the sunglasses that he still hasn't taken off.

That's something he can say, anyway. "Sunglasses at night, huh?" The joking tone he's trying for falls flat in the cab. "I mean, it's very rock-star."

Mikey smiles and tugs the glasses down to the tip of his nose, looking at Pete over the lenses. "I had Lasik a few years ago. It made my eyes sensitive as shit. I'm like, shades-dependent now."

"Oh. That sucks."

"I have an excuse most of the time, LA sun or whatever, but at night I always just look like a pretentious dickbag."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Thanks." His hand slides against Pete's thigh again, knuckles bumping along the seam of his jeans. "That's nice of you."

"Nice is good, right?"

"They're not synonymous."

"I mean, you like nice."

Mikey looks at him again, then bumps the glasses back up his nose. "I remember you being much smoother than this last time."

Pete looks away, staring out the window at the stupid stabbing lights, telling himself he's not allowed to get that sick twist in his stomach because of somebody he doesn't even really know. He'll get out of the cab at the hotel, Mikey will go back to the club, it'll be fine, there won't--

Mikey's hand curves over Pete's kneecap and squeezes gently. "That was a compliment. Smooth people are boring."

Pete swallows and keeps staring at the window, at the ghost-faint reflection of Mikey overlaying the lights. "Well, that's good to hear, because I'm incredibly fucking awkward."

Mikey laughs and rubs his thumb over the edge of Pete's knee, along the ridges of scar tissue that he doesn't know are there. "So am I."

**

That is a bald-faced lie.

Awkward is the last word Pete would use for how Mikey operates between the door to the hotel room and the couch. He steers Pete across the room, gets him out of his t-shirt and his belt, and has the belt wrapped around his wrists all before Pete manages more than a semi-intelligible "Um" sound between kisses.

"Oh." He blinks up at Mikey in what he suspects is a really stupid way, half-lying back on the couch with his wrists pinned behind him and his knees splayed out wide. Mikey's smiling down at him, hands on his hips like a triumphant cowboy or something, only he still has those goddamn glasses on so it's a triumphant cowboy Darth Vader and this is _really_ more than Pete can handle at one time. "Can you take the sunglasses off now?"

Mikey takes them off, folds them up carefully, and sets them on the dresser. The motions are careful and precise, and Pete can _almost_ find awkward in them, but once the glasses are safely out of the way the sweater and t-shirt come off, the jeans hit the floor, and Mikey's kneeling between Pete's thighs like a porn star.

Bad thoughts, Pete thinks vaguely, looking down into Mikey's eyes. They're large and bright and a shade of hazel that he thinks he would have to study for a while to quite pin down in words.

"Hi," Mikey says, and kisses the top of Pete's left thigh.

"Hi."

"I want to blow you again. Is that cool?"

Pete blinks. "What?"

"I mean, did you have anything else in mind?"

"I don't have anything in mind at all. I've only known this was happening for half an hour."

"You mean you weren't thinking about this all the way here in the cab?"

"Well, I was, but in abstract, not in specific detail."

Mikey rests his chin where he kissed and frowns slightly. "I was making, like, an ordered list."

"I thought you were just being quiet."

"Who the fuck is that quiet on the way to a hookup if they're not doing mental choreography?"

"Is that a serious question?"

Mikey sighs and falls back on his heels, tilting his head to stare up at the ceiling and rubbing the back of his neck. "I swear I used to be good at this."

"At witty banter?"

"At hooking up in general. I was never good at witty banter."

"You're very good at hooking up in general. From what I remember of that night in LA, you're top of the class."

"From what you remember?" Mikey laughs softly, pushing his hair off his forehead. "Not generally a phrase that inspires confidence, you know?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah." Mikey looks up at him again and Pete feels his breath stutter in his chest looking at him. Something about his eyes, he thinks; the shadows around them like smudged grey pencil, the hint of sadness in them that might actually just be tired, except that tired is the key that lets the sadness in.

"Let me try this again," Mikey says softly. He gets to his feet, pushing up off the carpet with a jerky movement that absolutely does invite the word awkward. He sits beside Pete on the couch and catches his chin with two fingers, curving them gently against the bone and turning Pete's face toward his. "Hi."

"Hi."

Mikey leans in and breathes against Pete's lips, softly, warmly, and Pete closes his eyes and invites him in.

**

This time Pete doesn't fall asleep after. He leaves Mikey in the bed and slips back out to the lounge area to watch TV at half-volume, wearing one of the monogrammed hotel robes with the hood flipped up so he can pretend he's invisible on the couch. Things you can't see in the dark can't see you either if you're wearing a hood. Proven scientific fact.

Mikey comes out of the bedroom four episodes of confusing British television later. "You're up."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"I got cold." Mikey sits in the chair across from the couch and squints sleepily at the screen. "Is that...what is that?"

"Not a clue."

"Huh." Mikey rubs his eyes and peers at Pete through his fingers. His hair's falling down over his forehead in uneven chunks, clinging together with sweat and gel. Some of the strands are beginning to twist in gentle waves that Pete imagines Mikey normally beats out of them with a straightener. "You okay?"

"I don't sleep well."

"Overseas?"

"In general."

"Oh. That's right, I read that."

Pete blinks. "You read it?"

"Yeah. I looked you up, after last time. I read your Wikipedia page."

"My Wikipedia page mentions my insomnia?"

"Yeah. Personal life section. I mean, the whole article's marked to be cleaned up and edited, or whatever, so maybe that's why. But it's in there."

"What else is in there?"

"Lots of things."

Pete can't tell if he's flattered or slightly appalled. Andres is supposed to keep an eye on the Wiki situation. "Tell me some stuff you know about me now."

"You've played all over the world. Here. Europe. South America."

That's true. Pete nods and taps the remote against his knee. Suddenly his hands are nervous.

"You're kind of a bad-boy, rebel type persona. Fighting with coaches and other players and giving shocking interviews and partying and stuff." The corner of Mikey's mouth quirks up. "Might even call you a rock star."

"I think most people call me a pain in the ass."

"Huh." Mikey shrugs and curls his legs up under himself in the chair. "Been married twice, both lasted less than a year, known to cavort with Hollywood starlets--"

"I do not _cavort_."

"Their words, not mine. Um. That's about it."

"Nothing about how I actually play, huh?"

Mikey actually blushes. "I didn't really read that part. It was full of technical terms."

Pete has to laugh. He lets the remote drop to the couch and shakes his head, running his hand over his hair. "Well. I actually am good. Like...really good. And I used to be great."

"If I knew anything about the sport, I would be impressed?"

"You might." Pete shrugs and looks away, not sure why his stomach is suddenly clenching with disappointment. "I think so, anyway."

Mikey's quiet for a minute. "I wish I knew, then."

The silence that follows threatens to turn into something oppressive and heavy and weird. Pete already can't stand it. "You want to go see if we can find some coffee?"

"Definitely."

**

The coffee shop is nearly deserted at this hour, which is nice, but on the downside the morning pastries aren't ready yet. They each get a stale muffin and a coffee and sit in silence for a while. It's more comfortable being quiet here, outside the hotel room. They're still essentially alone, but the change of scenery lets in just enough space and air that they can breathe again.

At least Pete feels like he can breathe. He closes his eyes and draws air deep into his lungs, holding it for a count of ten before letting go. When he opens his eyes again, Mikey's smiling. "What?"

"You have amazing lung capacity."

Pete feels heat rise in his face, but smiles anyway, ducking his head to sip his coffee. "Side effect of the job."

"Yeah. You're in incredible shape. Like, perfect shape."

"Thanks."

"It's not empty flattery. I mean, this would be a weird time to start with flattery. _After_ we've slept together twice. That wouldn't make any sense at all."

Pete has to smile. "You've got great hands. Also not empty flattery."

"Side effect of _my_ job." That weird, honking little laugh is becoming one of Pete's favorite sounds a lot faster than it has any right to. Mikey takes a sip of coffee and groans, tilting his head back. The line of his throat is so distracting that Pete almost misses the next thing he says. "So you didn't look me up?"

"What?"

"I Googled the shit out of you. You didn't look me up at all?"

Pete grips his cup carefully with both hands. "I looked up your band. That one song you guys did, that was awesome." At Mikey's look, he winces and clarifies. "Oh, um, the one... _we'll carry on, we'll carry on_ , that one. I was with DC when that one came out, it was on the mix they'd play during warm-ups. Had it in my head for the whole season. Badass."

"Thanks. But after we met. You didn't look me up."

"Well. No. I didn't want to be creepy."

Mikey blinks slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Did you just call me creepy?"

"No! No. It's a Wiki page. I mean. It's right out there in the open."

"True enough." Mikey takes a drink and looks away, watching the barista move sleepily behind the counter. "I don't have a Wiki page, for the record. It just redirects back to the band."

"Does that bother you?"

"Nah. I'm not really in it for that stuff."

"What are you in it for?"

Mikey looks at him for a moment before he shrugs, a slow roll of his shoulders. "I never wanted to do anything else."

They fall quiet again, Mikey drinking his coffee slowly and Pete peeling the rim off his coffee cup. "I almost went into music," Pete says after a moment. "I mean, when I was finishing up high school, I wasn't sure if I wanted to go after soccer stuff or join a band. I was really into the local scene. I wanted both. Guess I didn't have one single vision like that."

"But you did choose soccer."

"Well. Yeah. But not because I couldn't _imagine_ doing anything else."

"What made you decide?"

Pete knows his smile is weird; it feels weird, twisting up one side of his mouth, and he brings his mangled coffee cup up to hide it, shrugging. "Music was never going to make me rich and famous."

Mikey looks at him for a really long time this time, long enough that Pete starts to squirm in his seat.

"You play soccer," Mikey says finally. "You're _not_ famous."

The sharp twist of relief in his chest manifests as a giggle. It feels awesome. "Fuck you, dude, it's the most popular sport in the world."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Mikey's crooked-toothed grin is as delightful as his laugh. "Keep telling yourself that."

"I will. I was a big deal in Croatia, okay?"

"Croatia. Shit."

"And Ecuador. I was fucking _huge_ in Ecuador. I dated their national beauty queen."

"Yeah? How was that?"

"Great, actually. She was really smart. I think she's a surgeon now." Mikey grins and goes to take another sip of coffee, frowning as his cup comes up empty. Pete glances over at the counter, then back to him. "You want...?"

"I should probably get back, actually." He sounds genuinely regretful. It makes it easier for Pete to manage a smile as they both stand and shrug into their jackets.

"It was really good to see you again," Pete says.

"You too. I'm glad you ended up at that club."

"Of all the gin joints in all the world..." Pete shakes his head and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Where are you off to next?"

"Manchester, then Scotland, then over to Germany." Mikey runs his hand through his hair and exhales. "Should be some good shows."

"Where in Germany?"

"Berlin."

Pete grins and rocks back on his heels. "I fucking love Berlin. Great city."

Mikey's eyes are sharp, assessing. "You know..." He stops, and Pete watches the struggle on his face, can actually see him arguing with himself before he comes to a conclusion. "You know, if you happened to show up at a gin joint in Berlin, your name might be on the backstage list."

The spike of adrenaline that shoots up Pete's spine to his heart is the kind of thing he thought he could only feel out on the field, anymore. "Yeah? It might?"

"Maybe. You know. If you don't have to get home."

"I think maybe I could make something happen. Hypothetically."

"Sweet." Mikey reaches out and touches his jaw, feather-light and so fast that Pete doesn't have time to react before he's pulled his hand away and is starting for the door.

**

Mikey onstage, it turns out, is this kind of beautiful, weird, alien creature. He plants his feet and rocks in and out of his bass, pacing a narrow path from the front of the stage back to the drum riser like a tiger in a cage. From his place side-stage, standing frozen in the square foot of space he's reasonably sure is out of the way of the techs, Pete can't take his eyes off him.

Pete only knows a few of the songs--the _carry on_ one, and the ones from the new album; he bought that off iTunes and memorized it on the flight from London to Berlin. Everything else, he bobs his head in rhythm and claps at the appropriate times. He can fake it.

Gerard is fun to watch as a frontman. Ray and Pedicone from the club are, it turns out, not bodyguards, but lead guitar and the drummer. There's a keyboardist and a short dark-haired guy with tattoos on another guitar that Pete keeps a close eye on in case it turns out that Mikey has some kind of fetish. That would be embarrassing.

But it's hard to pay attention to any of them when Mikey is out there, just fifteen feet away, his hair combed forward over his face in a crest like a wild bird. He nods his head and it dances under the lights, his hands sliding up and down the neck of his bass, which fucking _sparkles_. It's the coolest thing Pete's ever seen. He's hoping later Mikey will let him touch it.

"Thank you so much!" Gerard yells, blowing kisses to the crowd, and the six of them jog offstage. The techs step up with bottles of water and beer and packs of cigarettes, and the guys fall on them like drowning men. Pete huddles farther back in his square foot, being as quiet and out of the way as he can and trying not to dwell on the way Mikey's hair clings to his neck, or how that must mean the skin would taste like salt and gel.

"Pretty fuckin' good, huh?" Gerard mumbles around his cigarette. The others all nod, and Mikey says something Pete can't hear. Gerard's eyes flick to Mikey, then over his shoulder to Pete, and he exhales smoke through his teeth before very deliberately looking away. "We cool on the encore? Cancer, Money, Vampires, Bulletproof?"

"Same as last night," Pete's fetish doppelganger says, rising up on his tiptoes and leaning in to breathe the secondhand smoke. "All set."

"Fuckin' A." Gerard steps away from him and finishes the smoke, grinding the butt out under his heel before stretching his arms up toward the ceiling and breathing in and out loudly. Mikey swings his own arms in slow arcs, smiling a little as he watches and then turns, scanning the dim side-stage corners until he finds Pete.

Pete spreads his fingers and waves a little, cautiously. Mikey's careful little smile splits into a grin. He holds up his hand, palm spread wide, then closes and opens it again twice. Pete has no idea what that means.

"Fifteen minutes," Mikey's tech says, smirking a little as he finishes wrestling the bass back in tune. "Give or take. They'll bring it in tight, though. They always do."

He's right; the encore comes in at sixteen and a half minutes. Pete stays in his corner until the band's vanished down the hall to the dressing room and the techs swarm the stage, the lights up bright enough to kill all the shadows and leave him blinking.

He moves from the corner over to the mouth of the hallway, looking past the assistants and venue staff to the dressing rooms. He feels like he's six years old and lost at the zoo, telling himself to stay put and wait for his mom and dad to come find him.

Mikey emerges from the dressing room first, slicking his hair back off his face with both hands and then settling his sunglasses carefully on his nose. "Wentz?"

"Right here."

"Sweet." Mikey hurries down the hall at a lazy trot, his knees bumping against each other. He's wearing the same tight jeans and clunky boots he wore onstage, but he's swapped out the animal-print tank top for a hoodie that's zipped to his chin. "Sorry you kind of got left in the shuffle, there. I just wanted to get changed quick."

"No problem." He's standing close enough that Pete can smell him, stage-sweat and hairspray and stuff he can't identify. Dust, maybe. "You ready to go?"

"I've gotta do autographs and handshakes. Give me forty-five?"

"Oh. Sure. What should I do while you're..."

"You can wait in our dressing room. Help yourself to whatever. Check out the reading material, it's pretty eclectic."

"In an interesting way or a weird, disturbing way?"

"A little of column A, a little of column B." Mikey jogs off again before Pete can follow up on that, or get him to take him to the dressing room, or...anything, really. He stands there blinking for another minute and then shrugs it off and just lets himself in.

The reading material is, indeed, eclectic in every possible way. Batman comics, some obscure guitar magazine, a German tattoo mag, and actual genuine fetish porn. They probably order it as a collection, some kind of nerd-rock-star gift pack.

Eventually Mikey sticks his head through the door and Pete looks up over the edge of the pages, waiting for the _Hey, you want to get out of here_? that's sure to be coming.

But it doesn't. Mikey looks at him and smiles, wide and slow. "You stuck around."

Pete blinks. "Of course."

"I dunno, I just..." Mikey shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. "There was a moment. I have moments sometimes."

Pete nods and closes the magazine carefully before setting it aside. "Well. I'm still here."

"Sweet." That's the word for Mikey's smile, too, Pete thinks. Sweet. "I'm ready."

**

Mikey bites when he's about to come. This is the third time they've had sex, so Pete feels pretty safe in calling it a habit, the way Mikey's teeth dig into his shoulder and hang on as Mikey's hips stutter and jerk, driving his dick deeper into Pete.

"Fuck," Mikey whispers, and Pete nods, his fingers still clinging to the edge of the mattress. He thinks he might fall over if he lets go. Or possibly he might die. It's hard to tell.

Mikey exhales hot and damp against the back of his neck. "Gonna move." Pete nods again and Mikey pulls out, his hand sliding a slick trail through the sweat on Pete's spine. Pete lowers himself to the mattress as Mikey's footsteps move away from the bed and back again. "Good?"

"Yeah." Pete keeps his eyes closed as the bed shifts under Mikey's weight, until the warmth of Mikey's body is stretched out alongside his own. Mikey doesn't touch him, doesn't cuddle, but he's _there_. It's enough to let Pete look up at the ceiling and draw in a deeper breath, make sure everything's still working right.

"You, like." Mikey falls silent again for a minute. Pete waits, counting the heartbeats echoing in his head. "You make these noises."

"Sorry?"

"No, I like them."

Pete watches him out of the corner of his eye, but Mikey doesn't show any inclination to go on. "What kind of noises?"

"Sort of like...you squeak."

"I _squeak_."

"Yeah."

"Well, that's the least sexy thing I've ever heard."

Mikey shrugs and turns on his side to face him. "I said I like them." He runs his fingers down Pete's thigh to his knee, tracing carefully over the scars. "What're these?"

"Surgery. Two on that knee, one on the other one."

"What for?"

"Fucking them up out on the field. Knees are tricky." Mikey traces every bit of every scar, one by one, and Pete closes his eyes. "No exciting story."

"You didn't win the game or trip the bad guy or anything?"

"There aren't bad guys in sports. It's pretty neutral."

"I _know_ that's not true."

Pete has to laugh and Mikey's fingers curl loosely around his thigh like an embrace. "Okay, yeah. I made an awesome pass that went in for a point before one surgery. The other two were good tries but nothing happened."

"That sucks."

"That's the game." Mikey shifts down the mattress, lowering his head and following the lines he just traced with his fingers with his tongue. "M-Mikey..."

"Come to Italy." Mikey presses a slow arc of kisses around the edge of his kneecap. "Come to the show in Rome."

"I can't."

"Come with me to Italy."

"Maybe." Mikey's mouth grazes up his thigh, along the line of his hipbone, across his stomach. Pete's breath hitches in his chest. "I'll try."

**

"Please tell me you're joking," Andres says.

"I really wanted to do this conversation by e-mail."

"And I'm not letting you get away with that anymore. Now pack your suitcase so you don't miss your flight home."

"I want to go to Italy, Andres."

"Pete, you start practice in three days. Let's do the math. Think about the time zones. That concert is happening just about three hours after practice ends."

"I'll only miss two days of practice."

"Three. Time zones and traffic and flight delays. You have to think about those things, Pete."

"I don't care."

"They'll drop your contract."

"No, they won't. They might fine me but they won't drop me."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Please, Andres, make this happen. I need this."

"Pete..."

"Andres." He closes his eyes tightly, fighting for control. "I am feeling an emotion that I think might be happiness but I need a little more time to be sure. Can you please, please, _please_ help me? Please. Be my friend for a minute and _then_ my agent."

"This is probably a sign that we shouldn't work together anymore, you realize." Pete can hear him clicking at his computer. "You fly into Rome tomorrow morning."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you find out what your bosses decide to do."

**

Pete doesn't remember anything about Rome for more than the moment it happens. The airport, the streets, the concert, none of it's really _real_. He feels the heat of the sun on his skin, the sharpness of the air conditioning, he's surrounded by the lights and the noise of the show, but all of it fades out like a dream, like there isn't any room for anything in his head except getting back to the hotel with Mikey.

It's fast, frantic sex, rug burns and bruises sex. Pete bangs his forehead against the bedframe, and Mikey's back pops in an alarming way when he reaches across Pete for the condoms.

"You need to do some yoga," Pete mutters, hand wrapped tight around the base of his own cock, fighting for control.

"Shut up." Mikey's hand lands against the back of Pete's neck, pushing his face down to the mattress. Pete shuts up because the other option is not being able to breathe.

Mikey fucks into him hard and fast, leaving Pete's thighs shaking and his hands scrambling at the carpet to hold himself up. "Jesus," Mikey gasps, digging his fingers into Pete's hips. "Jesus, Pete."

"Don't stop," Pete manages, closing his eyes tightly against the sharp burn. "God, don't fucking _stop_."

"Want you to feel it." Mikey thrusts deeper, hard enough that Pete sees stars of pain. "Feel me."

"Fuck." Pete grabs his dick again, squeezing tight. "Fuck, wait a minute. Wait."

"You just said don't stop."

"I know, but just...just a minute." Mikey goes still, rubbing his thumbs in slow arcs over Pete's hips, and Pete takes a shuddering breath. He just wants to feel for a minute, memorize what it's like to have Mikey inside him, have something to reach for when he's trying to remember this whole stupid crazy thing.

"Pete," Mikey says after a few minutes, his voice tight and pleading. Pete nods and bites his lip as Mikey starts to move again, letting himself get lost in the hurt and the good. They're pretty much the same thing.

**

Pete sleeps for a couple of hours, jerking awake when Mikey's phone goes off. "'s just the alarm," Mikey mumbles against his shoulder, lips sliding against a bruise. "Airport call in an hour."

"Where are you going?"

"Spain." Mikey's quiet for a minute, breathing in synch with him. "You should come with us."

"I love Spain. I played for Barcelona for a year."

"Come with us."

Pete swallows, feeling Mikey's breath ghost across his skin as he nuzzles the back of his neck. "I can't."

"I know."

"I wish I could."

"It's probably better. This way it's a story."

"Everything's a story."

"Yeah, but everyone likes an ambiguous ending the best."

Pete blinks against the half-light. "I don't think that's true."

"Let's pretend." Mikey's arm slides around his waist, pulling him back against him. "We've got an hour."

Pete turns around carefully under Mikey's arm and kisses him, not bothering to make it clean or good. His teeth click painfully against Mikey's and catch at his lips; his knee bumps against Mikey's groin and makes him hiss before he shifts his legs and lets Pete settle between them.

"What the hell happened here?" Pete whispers. "What was this?"

"It's a story." Mikey rolls his hips, rubbing his half-hard cock against Pete's, and Pete presses a moan into another kiss. Mikey's hand slips down between them, long fingers wrapping around them both, and the story gets more sweet than bitter for a little while longer, at least.

**

"Have a good season," Mikey says, standing there with his jacket folded over his arm and his free hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans. Just his hand strains the fabric to the limit. The jeans are very tight.

"Have a good tour."

Mikey smiles a little, or at least his mouth twists up. Pete can't see his eyes through the shiny black lenses. Darth Vader takes his leave. "Thanks."

Pete leans in and kisses him one more time, the taste of mouthwash making his lips and tongue tingle and burn. He slides his hand up the back of Mikey's neck, beads of water still running down from Mikey's hair and over his fingers. "Bye."

"I'll look you up when I get back to LA." Mikey touches Pete's nose, his jaw, his shoulder. Pete isn't sure if any of them mean he should try for another kiss, or a hug, or just step back and let Mikey go.

Mikey goes before Pete has a chance to decide. That's for the best, too, if he's using Mikey's criteria. More ambiguous that way.

**

The fine is considerable, and the public apology press conference is embarrassing, but being benched for two games just pisses him off. Five years ago he would've thrown a fit over it--two years ago, even--but he can't quite talk himself into it this time. He's mad but not boiling over. Maybe this is what maturity feels like.

"It's because you know you're in the wrong," Andres tells him. "You actually do deserve to be benched."

"Whatever."

"That's not much of a comeback. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Blow me," Pete says, and hangs up. He's logging a ridiculous number of miles on the treadmill, since he got back. He isn't _supposed_ to log this many miles; fast-twitch vs. slow-twitch muscle, what he needs for a sprint up the field versus what running until he's too exhausted to move actually builds. But it's the only place he can make himself not think.

He listens to the album a lot. That "Na Na Na" song makes the miles just float away.

**

He always forgets what being out on the field is like until he's there again. It's like he's a little bit more alive, dialed up past eleven to twelve or fifteen. His whole body buzzes, his brain moves faster, he can feel his blood sliding through his veins. It's incredible.

It's a tight game, mostly defense. But good, disciplined. He likes the way his muscles feel sprinting down the field, he likes the way his lungs feel when he draws a deep breath, he likes the way he _thinks_ out here, just the next move and the strict set of possibilities just beyond that, no further. The world narrows down to things that make pure, mechanical sense.

The physics of the ball, the yelling from the crowd, the flash of his teammates and his opponents through his field of vision, the smell of sweat and turf. This is his home. He can't imagine ever doing anything else.

He sees Jeff drop back and take a pass from Evans, dribbling the ball easily and tracking downfield with his eyes. It's a signal as loud as a siren as far as Pete's concerned, and he takes off to get where the ball is going to go, stepping into place just as Jeff kicks it. It's easy and it's perfect, pieces fitting into place exactly how they're supposed to, like some kind of higher power has a plan.

He checks the ball, dribbles it, sees Kent moving from the corner of his eye and pivots to pass to him.

The pop sounds as loud as a gunshot to his own ears, and for a plit second he wonders if maybe it _was_ before the white-hot rush of pain hits his nervous system. He's vaguely aware of his knee giving out and the turf rushing up to meet his face, but not in an organized or real thinking way, because all of his higher brain functions are occupied with _no no no not again not again **no** fucking no not **now**_.

He punches the grass, he punches his own face, he punches the ref and the trainer who run over to pull him up off the ground. It's not _fucking_ fair, not now, not like this. He's not ready for this yet.

**

Andres drives him home from the hospital. Pete's fucked up on painkillers and doing his best not to think, but he does remember to say thank you.

"That's the fourth time you've thanked me," Andres says patiently, hitting his turn signal and changing lanes. "Please stop."

"I just really appreciate it."

"I know. But this is my job."

"No. You're my agent, not my assistant. You don't have to do all the stuff you do for me."

"I take a bigger cut than most agents. We discussed this at the very beginning, Pete. Full-service." He changes lanes again and Pete closes his eyes tightly, fighting the wave of nausea that rushes through him when the car moves laterally. "Right now you just need to concentrate on resting and getting well."

"How bad is it?"

"You just need to rest and let it heal."

"Andres."

"Pete..."

"Is it over?"

Andres takes a breath and slows the car for a stoplight. "You're out for the season. Rehab and healing and getting back up to speed."

"So yes, it's over. I'm done."

"You don't know that."

"I do." He takes a shaky breath and tells himself that the hot stinging in his eyes is the pills. "I'm almost thirty-two years old. This was probably my last season anyway. It's the third surgery on the same knee. I'll be lucky if I can even _walk_."

"The doctor said..." He cuts himself off and steps on the gas again, hurrying into the flow of traffic.

"The doctor said a sixty percent range of motion at _best_." He thumps his head against the window. "They have to tell me this stuff too, you know. I'm the actual patient."

The rest of the ride is silent, until Andres parks in Pete's driveway. "Take the time off. Rest. Heal," he says finally, turning the car off and looking at Pete. "Go visit your folks. Relax. Figure out what really matters."

Pete fumbles the door open and stares at the distance from the car to the door. He has to sit still and wait while Andres goes around to the back to get his crutches. So close, so far.

"I'll call you," Andres says, steadying him as he balances himself on the crutches.

"Yeah." Pete takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "Yeah, do."

**

If it wasn't for his cleaning lady, Pete's pretty sure he would quietly die.

Adriana is a tiny, stern lady who pretty clearly dislikes him, but apparently doesn't actually want him dead. Every day she works, she brings food back to his bedroom and stands there staring at him until he eats it. Before she leaves, she sets more on the table by his bed. It would be dumb to let it go to waste, so he eats those meals, too. Since he's eating and drinking, he has to use the bathroom, so he manages that trip at least once a day. He doesn't totally curl up in his bed and give up on the world. It's just tempting.

Painkillers are a blessing from God and the angels to poor stupid kneeless bastards on earth. When those run out, he'll just gnaw his leg off and be done with it. Except Adriana probably won't allow that. Maybe he can send her for more.

He lies there in his stupid too-white bedroom and listens to her move back and forth around the house, cleaning things that can't possibly be dirty because he hasn't _left his bed_ to dirty them. He's not sure how long it's been since the game or the surgery. He could count his pills and figure it out, but math's kind of the first thing to go out the window in the given situation, and it was never his strong point anyway.

He hears the doorbell, the front door opening, muted conversation. That's exciting and unsettling. He hopes it isn't missionaries.

"Mr. Wentz." Adriana is suddenly in his bedroom doorway, looking at him with quiet disapproval. He clings to the edge of his blanket and wonders how she moves around the house so goddamn fast. "Your friend is here."

"Who?"

"Your friend."

"I'm not expecting anyone." She glares at him some more and then steps back out of sight. He struggles to sit up a little more against the pillows, frowning in confusion. "Wait, Adriana..."

"Hi."

Mikey Way has replaced her in his doorway, a backpack over his shoulder and a duffle at his feet. Pete forgets every word he knows.

"Is this a bad time?" Mikey nudges the bag on the floor out of his way and takes a step into the room. "I can come back later. Well. No, I can't, really, but I can go sit in the living room until later."

Pete makes an unintelligible sound. Mikey doesn't appear to mind.

"We just got off tour," Mikey continues, letting his other bag fall to join the first one. "Got a month break. It's pretty sweet. I took a cab here right from the airport, so I kinda reek, and I need to wash all this stuff."

"What are you doing here?" That's a complete sentence. He's very proud.

Mikey blinks at him slowly. "We're on a tour break. I just said that."

"What are you doing _here_?"

Mikey's mouth twitches. It's not really a smile. "I had a Google alert on your name. I watched the video clip of what happened. I thought..."

Pete's pretty sure he should be feeling something right now, maybe even saying something, but all he can do is stare and wait.

"I thought maybe you could use some company," Mikey says finally. "Was I wrong? Adriana doesn't seem like a great conversationalist."

"She hates me," Pete says thickly.

"That's cool." Mikey takes his sunglasses off and sets them on top of his bags. Pete can see that his eyes are red around the edges, puffy. He wonders who made Mikey leave the glasses off long enough for them to get that irritated by the light. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Um."

"Sweet." Mikey crosses over to the bed first. He leans down and presses his mouth to Pete's before Pete's brain can catch up to anything that just happened beyond _Mikey_ and _tall_ and _dear God he smells like he's been dead for two days and so do I_. "It's good to see you again."

**

Mikey's a strange houseguest. Not _demanding_ , exactly; he asks a lot of questions, but he just nods and doesn't say anything when Pete answers. Then inevitably, the next time Pete wakes up from a painkiller sleep, Mikey's gone ahead and arranged things exactly the way he wants them.

"Do you have any _good_ food? I mean not vegan or weird." Nod, silence. Pete wakes up to the smell of bacon frying, a bag of Doritos set up next to his pillow like a teddy bear, and on his next halting trip out to the kitchen, his freezer has sprouted ice cream from top to bottom.

"Is that the only video game system you have?" Nod, silence. Pete wakes up to a new system wired to his TV and two Best Buy bags holding other options should the first not be up to his standards.

"The guest room's the yellow one at the end of the hall?" Nod, silence. Pete wakes up to Mikey wrapped up in a blanket on the floor next to his bed, which is just stupid.

"What are you _doing_?" he mumbles, peering over the edge of the mattress. Mikey snorts awake and squints up at him, his hair tangled wildly over his face.

"Sleeping."

"Why are you in here? I told you where the guest room is."

Mikey rolls over on his stomach, hugging his pillow against his chest. "Your guest room's creepy."

"What?"

"There's, like, a security camera looking _in_ the window, and it faces the street so the fence is right there, and it's just...it's creepy. I like it better in here."

The camera is definitely not supposed to be looking in the window. Pete's going to have to call the company and complain, assuming he remembers this conversation. Or, well. Assuming this conversation is even _happening_ and not a hallucination. "Oh. You want to come up here in the actual bed?"

"I don't want to jostle your knee."

"The floor cannot be comfortable."

"It's fine. I'm cool." Mikey drags his hair back off his forehead. "Maybe tomorrow we can drag some couch cushions in here and make a fort."

"Forts are awesome."

"I know, right?" Mikey turns again, onto his side, and snuggles down under his blanket. "Now go back to sleep."

Surprisingly enough, Pete does.

**

They end up building the fort in the living room instead, on the grounds that all of the cushions are already there, as well as more furniture with frames to use in construction as draping points for the blankets. It's an epic fort. Adriana is going to kill them.

They're sitting in it with Pete's knee propped up on a pillow and bowls of ice cream at their sides, playing a zombie-killing video game while Mikey's iPod blasts the strangest mix of music Pete can think of. He swears that two or three songs ago somebody snuck a banjo in there.

Mikey hits pause and picks up his ice cream. It's as good a time as any for Pete to subtly attempt conversation. "So...you've been here a couple days now."

"Three," Mikey mumbles around his spoon. "Thanks, by the way."

"Yeah, it's no problem. It's been awesome. But, um."

Mikey's eyebrow goes up. "Um?"

"Don't you need to go home at some point?"

"You're kicking me out?"

"No! No. Just...you got home from tour and came right here. Don't you want to check on your stuff? Or pick up your mail? Or...I don't know. Make sure nobody's broken in and stolen your TV?"

"Oh." Mikey takes another bite. "It's cool. I live with Gerard and Lindsey. So that's all taken care of."

"You live with your brother?"

"Yeah." Mikey shrugs slightly, his eyes on the screen. "And their daughter. She's awesome. Kind of a three-parent situation, right? That's good for kids."

"Do you want to go see her?"

"I've gone over there a couple times while you're asleep."

"Oh." Pete falls silent, stirring his ice cream slowly. Mikey's body language has gone all stiff and tense, the slight smile vanished from the edges of his mouth.

"Do you want me leave?" Mikey says finally, setting his bowl aside.

"No." Pete means it, too. He really doesn't. "No, I was just checking."

A fraction of the tension goes out of Mikey's shoulders, though the smile isn't back just yet. "Cool. Let's kill some zombie motherfuckers, then."

**

Two nights later Pete wakes up with a start, shivering under the thin blanket. The clock says it's two AM and he can't figure out what woke him up until he hears the low, muffled sound from the floor again.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_ , he thinks, followed by _he doesn't go into the bathroom to do that when he's in somebody else's house?_ and _I should look._ He shifts over to the edge of the bed and looks down, taking in the sight of Mikey stretched out on top of his blanket with his dick in his hand and his other arm thrown across his mouth. He's biting down on his forearm, which is hopelessly fucking hot, and his dick is flushed dark and thick under the long knobby fingers that Pete still finds very very distracting.

"Get up here," he says, his voice hoarse and thick with sleep. Mikey gasps, his head snapping to the side and his eyes flying wide open. He looks up at Pete, mouth opening and closing, and his hips jerk as he comes hot and messy over his hand.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," Mikey breathes, licking his lips and panting roughly. "Jesus fucking _Christ_."

"Sorry." Pete clears his throat and pulls back a little, trying to look away politely. It's kind of hard to do, though, because Mikey looks like something out of really expensive porn, all sprawled out like that. "Um. I guess...don't worry about coming up here, then?"

"Shut up." Mikey's off the floor and onto the bed before Pete quite registers the movement or the words. Mikey climbs into the space on Pete's uninjured side, then grabs him by the other shoulder and rolls him so they're facing each other, Pete lying on his good knee. "Fuck, you were watching me."

"I..." He doesn't get a chance to say anything before Mikey's kissing him, deep and aggressive and shoving his tongue in his mouth like he's making up for lost time. Pete's feeling about thirty seconds behind the game in general, here. He'd really like to catch up at some point.

"That's what I was _thinking_ about," Mikey mumbles, his hand skating down Pete's chest to squeeze his dick through his sweatpants. "You watching me. And then you were. Goddamn it."

"Oh." It's Pete's turn to gasp, and maybe now he's caught up, actually, because _fuck_. Playing right into Mikey's fantasy, totally by accident, that's _exactly_ like porn. And Mikey was thinking about _him_ , not somebody else down there on his floor. Jesus. And now Mikey's hand is on him, and his mouth, kissing and squeezing and stroking, working him until he's hard and panting against Mikey.

"Fuck." Mikey pulls back a little, wiping his mouth on his shoulder and blinking hard, and Pete wants to _scream_ at him not to stop. "Fuck, okay. I want...what can we do that won't hurt?"

Pete blinks rapidly, trying to think. "You can't be on me. Too much...pressure. Weight. Can't be on top."

"Got it." Mikey shifts him over onto his back, watching the bad knee as Pete carefully angles it as far out as it can go. "But I can go down on you? Use my fingers, maybe?"

"I don't know." If they keep talking about it, anticipating the pain's going to make him lose his hard-on, which is an elusive and magical creature as it is considering how much fucking Vicodin he's on. "Let's...I think we have to try it and find out."

"Fly by the seat of the pants? I like it." Mikey pulls Pete's sweats down his thighs, shooting him a fast grin before ducking his head to breathe against him. "Hot." Pete's dick jerks in response and Mikey laughs, which is more hot air and vibration and god _fucking_ damn it, Mikey Way is a sadist in a Journey t-shirt.

"Don't tease, don't fucking tease," he manages to say, closing his eyes tight and arching up off the bed as best he can without moving his bad knee. "I'm so stoned I don't know if I can keep it up if you keep fucking _teasing_."

"I've heard that before." Mikey licks a lazy circle around the head and Pete digs his fingers into the blankets as hard as he can. "It's cool. I'm an expert."

It sounds like there's a story there, one that Pete should probably pursue with interest, but it turns out it's impossible to care when Mikey's taking him deep, hot and wet and tight around him and working up and down with a kind of single-minded intensity that it almost seems like bad form to bring to sex.

Not that he isn't grateful. Because he is. Oh, he is.

**

He wakes up again with a frantic jolt, his brain screaming in his skull. Something's wrong--dangerous and threatening and too close, unnameable and unknowable but _there_ and going to hurt him.

He's aware of the heat of Mikey's body next to him, the arm thrown across his chest, and he knows that those aren't the threat. Mikey's safe, he's not going to hurt him, but he's also not going to be able to protect him. Nothing can, not out here.

He scrambles to sit up, trying to get his leg under himself. "Fuck," he gasps as the pain shoots through him. "Fuck, fuck."

"Pete?" Mikey's voice is thick and blurred with sleep. "Pete, what are you doing?"

"I...I've gotta...I need..."

"Lie back down, you're going to hurt yourself."

"I _can't_." It comes out as a raw shout. "It's not safe."

He feels the bed shift under him and curls in on himself, bracing for pain to come from any angle. Instead hands curl loosely around his wrists, guiding him forward and up, helping him off the bed and settling his weight against Mikey's warm body.

"Where's safe?" Mikey asks softly. "Where do we need to go?"

Pete nods to the closet. When Mikey gets him there, he shoves the suits and jackets aside to expose the door and keypad. He punches in the code, ignoring Mikey's confused whisper. What the fuck is right. What the fuck is _any_ of this.

Once they're inside, the door slams and seals behind them, and Mikey jumps, almost dropping Pete to the floor. Pete eases away from him and braces himself against the wall, settling his forehead against the cool metal and forcing himself to take deep breaths.

"What is this?" Mikey asks, coming over to lean beside him. He doesn't try to touch, and Pete's grateful, because he's flipping so wildly through reactions that it might make him cry.

"Panic room," he mutters, digging his fingernails into his palms.

"Like the movie?" Mikey looks around slowly, then sinks down to the floor, sitting cross-legged with his back to the wall. "Fucking sweet."

"It came with the house."

"No shit." Mikey looks up at him, wide-eyed and still, all patient and waiting. "How long do you think you'll need?"

Pete shrugs. "Usually like an hour or two."

"Cool." Mikey nods and closes his eyes. "I'm going back to sleep."

He doesn't, of course; after a few minutes Pete goes to lower himself to the floor and Mikey's right there, hands on his hips, steadying him and guiding him down. "Sorry," Pete mutters, closing his eyes against the inevitable sharp jolts of pain. "It's fucked up. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"Why are you here?" It comes out sharp, a little more than Pete intended. It's bald and blunt and pretty ugly in the sterile air of the panic room. "Why are you doing this?"

Mikey's hands fall back to his lap and he sits there for a minute, face blank as a doll's. "You need a TV down here."

"What?"

"It's all...blank and boring. At least some books, dude. A magazine. Something."

Pete closes his eyes and breathes in and out, in and out. "Sorry."

"I'm just saying."

They're both quiet for a long time, listening to the hum of the vents, and when Mikey speaks again it's so soft at first Pete isn't sure if he's imagining it. "Don't be sorry, by the way."

"Why not? I woke you up and dragged you down here and you don't even have a magazine."

"Okay, maybe be sorry for that part. But don't be sorry for being scared."

"I'm scared of _nothing_. I should be pretty fucking sorry."

Mikey shrugs and closes his eyes again. "Life is really fucking scary. It would be stupid to be mad at someone for being afraid of something that's really fucking scary, don't you think?"

**

When they go back upstairs, Mikey helps Pete into the bathroom. "You're all sweaty," he says when he tugs Pete back on-course and away from his attempt to get to the bed. "You need to rinse off." And Pete can't really argue with that once it's brought to his attention, so they wrap his knee up in a plastic bag and Mikey hauls him into the shower.

Mikey sits cross-legged on top of the toilet while Pete showers, humming bits and pieces of something that Pete can't quite make out. The hot water feels good on his skin, and the steam seems like it's opening up his lungs with its warmth and the sharp piney smell of his shower gel. It's _good_. Fuck, it's good.

"To answer your question," Mikey says suddenly, and Pete almost falls, smacking his head against the wall because _what_.

"What?" he asks once he manages to find his feet again.

"What am I doing here. Your question. From before."

"Forget it."

"No. I've been thinking about it."

Pete pushes the shower door open a little and looks out at him through the steam. "Okay?"

"I don't know."

They stare at each other for a minute. "So why did you bring it up?" Pete finally asks.

Mikey shrugs slightly.

Pete bites back a sigh. There's water running down his face, getting in his eyes and dripping down to the floor. He's naked except for a garbage bag wrapped around his leg, he's only half-washed, and this is both weird and uncomfortable. "Mikey..."

"I don't know why I'm here, or why I'm doing this. I just...want to be. If that's cool."

"Oh." Pete blinks, letting more water fall. "Oh."

"I don't even necessarily _want_ to want it. I mean, this wasn't my _plan_." Mikey gestures sharply, encompassing something vague and not quite nearby, but Pete gets it, he thinks. This wasn't exactly his plan, either. Not really. Not when he started.

"But I can't help it," Mikey continues. "I can't stop thinking about you. Your stupid smile and that look you get on your face when I accidentally hurt your feelings and the way you watch me and the way you walk and that squeaky noise you make when I fuck you and how you make _me_ smile and how Gerard and the guys don't get it but I can't stop trying to explain it to them and how I thought something in my chest fucking broke when I watched that dumb video and you fell."

Pete's pretty sure something's breaking in his own chest right now, but it's breaking _open_. "O-oh."

"I just want to be here." Mikey's blushing, Pete realizes, his jaw set tight under flushed red skin. "If that's cool. Or whatever. I just want to...hang out here, with you, until I figure it out."

"Yeah," Pete says softly. "Yeah, that's...that would be okay."

**

Adriana took apart their cushion fort while they were in the panic room. They rebuild it before dinner, and Mikey helps Pete over the threshold with a kiss.  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Pages In Your Passport by inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/458943) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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